Wednesday, August 14, 2013

AFROMAN – Let Me Out

i dont wanna sell yayget my door kicked in by the kkkshoulda said the policelookin for the quarter piece inside my caprice

from the tracks of the ghettoi try to escapeya caught my musicon a CD or rap tapei make it then take itto the mom and papa storefor a proper cash flo’from the mom and papa store

dont want no more rappers on consignmentfind another alignmentcome back another climatepeople don’t even know who you isyou need a name in the music biz

your album, for one, has no promotionyour elbows and kneecaps have no lotionyour ashy, your music is trashyoutkast, inside they class meout the door is where they catch me(WHERE?)Straight into the street(WHERE YOU GOIN?)now im on my way to swap meet(SAY WHAT?)Tryn to make a mil without a record dealselling tapes off the back of my Coupe de ville (Bucka!)

Hustlin on the street is hardin a fight with the white security guardtalkin bout ‘no solicitin, no publicitin’I try to talk to him but nope he not listeninPunk ass, flunk ass, cant slam dunk assskunk ass, monk ass, sufferin suckatash!Now i’m seein a black guard workin for a Koreantellin me i cant be in the places that i be inyou can spend your money hereyou cant make no money hereyou better get outta here ya here heredid i make myself clear?i go and drink a beertil im pissy in my bellybig as missy elliot (EEEEEE!)

I’m so depressed plus overstressedwanna rap so hard im obsessedsometimes i wanna cock my heatmake them punks play my song on the beat (BUCKA!!!!)

depressed, determinedsmokin, shermannblack, germanmonster, hermansellin, crackmoney, stackeddown for a murder, blacklike roberta flackget dressed up, get my tapes pressed up’cause the music industry is messed up, baby!i throw a pity party as i sip bacardisell on! rap tapes, i dont need nobodyima beethoven givin, colt 45 sippinits the year 2000 and my gerri curl still drippinit might sound strange in my rhymebut im from the west coasti cant change with the hands of timewhat i am is what i amif you dont like what i am i dont give a damnblack pecker’s my title, john king is my idolim havin thoughts thats suicidal, young rivali dont care about fashion, just cadillac mashinbags to put my grass in, bank to put my cash ini dont wear FUBU like you do ’cause FUBU is boobooi pull my gat and make you shit boo boo sityou talk too much shit, thats why you got hitwalkin home with your gums splitwhile i sit, sell yay, eryday (BUCKA!)bumpin N.W.A. (BUCK-BUCKA-BUCKA!)cruisin down the street in my 6 A—FROpunk niggas get GA-FFO, bitchI wanna kill every cop I meetI wanna burn down this house that swapped meIm talkin smack but you aint hearinget your gat, i gotta start racketeerin, plus clearinall the koreans and all the europeansthe ones makin money off of black human beingsOH! give it up, give it upits time for the black folks to live it upa-ya-hey! burn it down, burn it downrun the white cops outta town, motherfuckerso tell andy griffith that his punk ass bruns from the black vigilanteit cant be,a dictatorship, ran by the klu klux klanfeel the wrath of the afroman

let me out, let me outlet me show these motherfuckers what im all aboutlet me out, let me outfuck the sheriff in the ass til he scream and shoutlet me out, let me outlet me show the whole world the best of melet me out, let me outlet me take control of my destiny

I CAN DO IT, I CAN MAKE ITif you dont give it to me baby, ima take itfuck the music industry, fuck the music bizi make my own rap tape and tell it like it isrevolution, revolutionrevolution – thats the solutioni made the rap tape, i made the CDfuck the corporate world, GIVE THE MONEY TO ME!BITCH!

ladadadadadadadadadaNobody understand the Afromanladadadadadadadadadafuck the police and the ku klux klanladadadadadadadadadaima hungry hustla, east side young busta